Friends, Romans, Yankiverse, lend me your ears: I come to bury Arod, not to praise him...

The double-plays men hit into live after them;

The doubles are oft interred with their bats;

So let it be with Arod. The noble Lupicans

Hath told you Arod was duplicitous:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Arod answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Lupica and the rest -

For Lupica is an honourable scribe;

So are they all, all honourable scribes -

Come I to speak in Arod's funeral.

He was a Yankee, faithful and just to Jeet:

But the Lupicans say he was duplicitous;

And Lupica is an honourable scribe.

He hath driven home many Yankee runners

Whose ransoms did the Steinbrenner coffers fill:

Did this in Arod seem duplicitous?

When that the hips hath barked, Arod still played:

Duplicity should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Lupica says he was duplicitous;

And the Lupicans are honourable scribes.

You all do remember the year 2009?

When the Lupicans blathered praise for his kingly crown,

When he hit .455 in the playoffs: was this duplicity?

Yet the Lupicans say he was duplicitous;

And, sure, the Lupicans are honourable scribes.

Did Arod jog out grounders, as did the spiteful Manny?

Did Arod whine when benched, as did so many before him?
Arod hath been convicted by a scrap of paper

That bears his name; Does he deserve defenders?

Yet the Lupicans say he was duplicitous;

And, as Manti Te’o showed us all,

The Lupicans are honourable scribes.

I speak not to disprove what Arod did,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, when he was hitting:

What cause withholds you then, to rip him now?

O sports bards! thou hath fled to ancient Rome,

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Arod,

And I must pause till it come back to me.